Balay ni Bambit

Book Of Love

The book of love is long and boring
No one can lift the damn thing
It’s full of charts and facts and figures and instructions for dancing
But I
I love it when you read to me
And you
You can read me anything
The book of love has music in it
In fact that’s where music comes from
Some of it is just transcendental
Some of it is just really dumb

But I
I love it when you sing to me
And you
You can sing me anything
The book of love is long and boring
And written very long ago
It’s full of flowers and heart-shaped boxes
And things we’re all too young to know
But I
I love it when you give me things
And you
You ought to give me wedding rings
And I
I love it when you give me things
And you
You ought to give me wedding rings
And I
I love it when you give me things
And you
You ought to give me wedding rings
You ought to give me wedding rings

– Peter Gabriel, from the movie “Shall We Dance”

And he did, actually, two years ago today. I remember how we weaved through the maze of medical jewelry stores in Binondo, trying to find the best pair of wedding rings our pittance of a budget could afford. We must have been a curious looking couple to the storekeepers, two middle-aged people, one obviously pregnant, the other with a belly that seemed to be sympathizing. They must have spied the strands of grey on our heads and have wondered what took us so long to do what we had been doing then.

In the judge’s chambers two years ago today we had been one of five couples to tie the knot at the same time. Four of us brides-to-be obviously in the family way while the fifth was in the slinkiest white dress and I remembered thinking “yeah, you’ll get yours too, my dear, if you’re lucky.”

Sam’s parents and brothers and sisters were there, although they had to stay outside the judge’s chambers as the room was quite small and the other couples had a retinue larger than ours and had taken all the seats. Both my boys were there too, with my eldest as one of the witnesses. The judge with her wry sense of humor assessed her charges and declared she was going to skip the “what’s happy about marriage” part and just go straight to “are you really sure this is what you want to do” part, reminding us that we were about to share not only each other’s wealth and resources but also each other’s debts, and ended by asking if we still wanted to go through with it.

It was funny how we got there, come to think of it, after having more or less lived together for the past four years and actively trying to have a baby. But get there we did, through bouts of technical misunderstandings (I was a politically correct techie and he was a notch just above being a politically scientific newbie) which were overcome by the uncanny bond that had us mouthing the exact same sentiments after beholding a remarkable sight. It’s that bond that has us finishing each others’ sentences and communicating through glances and raised eyebrows, this almost telepathic ability to anticipate each others actions based on any situation.

So this book of love, now legally two years old, starts a new chapter. I suppose people mark anniversaries to keep track of how long something has been around. But I had long ago discounted lengths and durations, when years back a friend of his had asked me how long I had known him and I answered “Ages.”

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